This town is just too damn small sometimes.
The beach was wonderful. Of course, how could it be any less?
We spent mornings checking out the surfers through the telescope. You can see much better through the telescope, let me tell you.
And we spent the rest of our time padding about the city or sitting out in the sun. It was a lovely California weekend in September - not too hot, but enough to get tan - and fine, a little pink as well. I don't wanna hear any lectures about sunscreen now. It's just that it smells funny, even though I bought this Frenchy French one (but what is this 15 spf stuff? The one I originally bought in Italy was 12 spf) that is a nice spray and doesn't smell like gross Coppertone and isn't goopy, but still. It is slimy nonetheless, and isn't it enough that I use a facial moisturizer with SPF?
Anyhow. Mint juleps were the drink of the weekend. I even expended enough effort to make minty simple syrup, which wasn't nearly as minty as I wanted. And really, muddling was too much effort. I need a minter, if such a thing exists, or at least something that effectively removes the minty part of the mint leaf out so that I don't end up drinking a pure glass of whisky. Mmm. Mint juleps. So yummy. Whisky on its own? Not so good, especially as it reminds me of these unfortunate couple of incidents in college when I did whisky shots with beer chasers. Not to be advised.
Ooh! I didn't mention that we went to Sushi Shibucho one night, and the sushi chef totally remembered me. I love it when that happens! I'm going to have to drive down monthly now.
And really. The one time one would least expect to run into her ex (who really, I am over. The reason this particular one needles me slightly is that I didn't get the chance to break up with him first, dammit, because I am supposed to always be the leaver in any relationship) is 11pm on a Sunday night, en route to a bar. (Bar shall be reviewed at a later date, when I'm not so hungover.) Of course, given the fact that my neurons don't fire so fast, it took me a few seconds to realise, oh FUCK, that IS fuckhead in front the restaurant between me and the bar - and my following thoughts as I passed him (ignoring him all the while because um, what have I to say to him? And also, do remember the slow-firing neurons - the ignoring part wasn't entirely intentional) were as such:
Whoa, was that him?and finally, the words that I never thought I would say (or think, as the case may be)..
Goddammit yes it was.
I so know we're living in the same apartment complex. Fuckin' a.
Goddammit, I introduced him to Doughboys.
He is going to get indigestion, eating so late. Serves him right.
That girl he's with is so NOT cute.
Haa! He looks even skinnier than ever!
Thank GOD I look cute tonight.
Thank GOD I am with shithead.For my (okay, another) ex was in town, and we were out on the town for drinks, and while this may be shallow - he is as tall as fuckhead (they did have a height contest once, but that's another story for another time), and is luckily broader (mm, ex-crew), and had good shoes on and a cooler shirt, and don't you know, that means that I WIN.
Oh dear lord, what has this world come to where I "win" by being with shithead? If I didn't have things to do later today (note that I did not say, "if it weren't so early"), I'd so start drinking now.